


Touch Me, Use Me, Just Consume Me

by ViolentAddict



Series: Omegaverse Holmes [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alpha Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I have a problem, M/M, Married Watson, Oneshot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Lubrication, Virgin Sherlock, Yet Another A/B/O fic, omega holmes, ruts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9511502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentAddict/pseuds/ViolentAddict
Summary: "Lust is the craving for salt of a man who is dying of thirst." - Frederick Buechner.Watson is in rut and goes to Holmes for relief. Sherlock knows that his friend is not in his right mind and he fully intends to push him away, but it's always been impossible to think straight around the alpha. He must deny him, although it's not so easy, not when Watson's the only person he's ever wanted. His happiness comes at much too high a cost - his heart, Watson's marriage and possibly their friendship is on the line. It's too high a risk and yet, like his depravity, Sherlock's love knows no bounds.Everything has to go wrong before they can go right.Holmes just hopes he can survive the aftermath - this time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally going to be called, 'Watson in Rut', like 'Holmes in Heat', but I couldn't bring myself to do it. XD
> 
> Hello, guys! I've been bitten by the plot bug. Instead of being a responsible adult and working on the things I planned to do this weekend, I wrote this. Yes, I have a problem with priorities, but who am I kidding? I was never responsible. :D
> 
> Special thanks to Emphysematous for the wonderful help with the edits and feedback. I could not bring this fic to life without you. <3
> 
> This was meant to be pure smut but somehow fluff happened and I couldn't resist. I love you guys for all the encouragement and the inspiration. You guys mean a lot to me and I will always be grateful for the support. If I hadn't seen that people actually liked what I wrote, I don't really think I'd be confident enough to attempt to write smut again for a long time.
> 
> I am forever humbled and mesmerized by how wonderful you guys are. In an all too dim world, you guys shine. 
> 
> And to any new readers to the series, welcome! Hope you all stick around! :)
> 
> This one is for every fearless ship to have ever sailed and to all the ships that have sunk, we salute you. ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_“I've waited so long baby_  
_Now that we're friends_  
 _Every man's got his patience_  
 _And here's where mine ends_  
  
_I want your sex_  
 _I want you”_

 

‘I Want Your Sex’, George Michael

 

            It’s twelve in the afternoon and most of London is awake and thriving. The weather outside is gorgeous, the cloudless sky a brilliant blue with a sun shining brighter than it has in months. People take to the pavements, walking around and trying to make the most of the beautiful day. There’s the clatter of carriage wheels and the patter of feet on the cobbled streets. There’s the sound of children’s laughter and peddlers showing off their goods.

 

            To anyone, watching London come alive is something special. To Sherlock Holmes, locking himself away in his study and refusing to come out until the sun disappears is just as special.

 

He’d awoken a few hours ago from his drugged stupor to realize that he’d slept longer than he had planned, and then, after being momentarily confused, he tried unsuccessfully to find Mrs. Hudson. He wanted to chide her for not at least attempting to rouse him from his sleep, only to remember that she had left that night to see a show. He could vaguely recall her mentioning that she’d be gone for a fortnight. Unfortunately, he had lost interest in the conversation at that point so whatever reason she gave for prolonging her absence was dead to him.

 

Perhaps, if he spared her more than a minute’s attention, if he listened to her, he would probably catch the little tidbits of personal information she would sometimes say. Then again, the thought of filtering through her near constant lament on him being the worst tenant imaginable just to see if she’ll say something worth hearing is simply frightening. He’d be sure to die of boredom.

 

            Still, he feels a little cheated. Without Mrs. Hudson around, who despite her nagging is somewhat decent company, what is he supposed to do? Go outside? That idea is so preposterous it’s comical.

 

            He could read the daily paper but now it has, unfortunately, regressed into more of a useless tabloid article better suited for cleaning windows than anything actually worth reading.

 

            He could try to make some headway with his experiments or perhaps play the violin. Anything to shake that hollow feeling he gets now whenever he’s alone.

 

            Feasibly, now that he has some time to himself, he can also work on forgetting Watson. Trying to make the now married doctor, Sherlock’s former companion, a long, lost memory had not been easy at first but with each passing day, Sherlock thought less and less of the alpha. He’s been making headway with it, and it’s another thing he’s proud of in regards to his progress.

 

Besides, it isn’t like he needs Watson to survive anymore, he’s been taking his suppressants faithfully. Sure, he’s been getting them by unsanctioned means, but at least he’s on them. It’s not a big step, but it’s a step.

 

It was silly to let Watson hold so much power over him. A temporary lapse in the omega’s judgment caused him to feel so strongly for the disinterested alpha. How ridiculous and inane to harbor something as vicious as love for someone who couldn’t feel it back!

 

The aggravating ring of the doorbell snaps him out of his self-deprecating thoughts. For a second, he’s about to call Mrs. Hudson to go and get the door when he once again remembers. He rakes his frantic hands through his hair. Sinking down into his chair, his long wispy fringe shadowing his face, he heaves a great sigh - he will move on, as Watson did.

 

The doorbell rings again and Sherlock stalks over to the foyer, frustrated and miffed at the obnoxious visitor who obviously can’t take a hint. With nothing but his trousers and his long-sleeved shirt on, he presses himself against the door.

 

“Mrs. Hudson is out,” he grumbles. _It’s a nice day, shouldn’t people be outside trying to get some color instead of bothering others._

 

“Holmes, I’m not here for Mrs. Hudson.” The voice is gravelly and low, but Sherlock would recognize it anywhere. It’s Watson and Sherlock’s stupid, traitorous heart does a small jump.

 

“What do you want, Watson?” he sighs. He doesn’t need this right now.

 

“Could you open the door?”

 

“No.”

 

“Holmes, I don’t think this conversation is a fitting one to be having on your front step.” Watson’s voice sounds distracted.

 

“Whatever you have to say, Watson, can surely be said to my front door. After all it’s the only thing that will listen to you since it doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I, however, will take full liberty in ignoring you.”

 

“We need to talk.”

 

“We need to do no such thing.”

 

“Holmes, please.”

 

“No, Watson.”

 

“Things between Mary and I are...complicated right now.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, Watson and Mary’s lovers’ quarrels have nothing to do with him.  He’s about to walk away from the door without saying another word to Watson when something fills his nose. It’s wild and strong, calling to him. He pulls the door open then, fully intending to walk past the alpha in order to find that tantalizing smell when it hits him again. It smells like warm ocean breeze on a glorious day. It makes him shudder and goosebumps pebble across his skin. The urge to submit is quickly rising but he tamps it down.

 

The scent is coming from Watson and it doesn’t take a detective to see that. He stands there smelling like the seaside, like the ocean and the sand but also the aroma of a virile male. With blue eyes narrowed into slits and jaw set, it appears that he’s in great pain, but is trying to conceal it. “I’m in rut.”

 

And Sherlock can’t help it; his eyes widen in shock. He’s never seen this happen to Watson. He’s seen it on many alphas, especially during his own tiring, constant heats, but never in Watson.

 

“Where’s Mary? Why aren’t you with her?” The words tumble out on their own accord before he can even think about posing his questions tactfully.

 

Watson’s nostrils flare and the salty, wonderful scent of the sea gets stronger. “I don’t want to be with her.”

 

“What?”

 

“She’s not the one that I want to be with. Come now, Holmes. This silly pretense is ridiculous, if you just let me in we can -”

 

But Sherlock, regaining sense and some strength, closes the door right in the alpha’s face. “Watson, you aren’t thinking straight. It’s your rut. You need to go back to your wife and work things out,” he says all this through the door again, leaning against it and closing his eyes. His heart is thundering in his chest and it suddenly feels too hot. _Just leave._

 

Watson’s voice is honey-sweet and dangerously gentle, “I’ve been thinking about you since I woke up this morning. Do you know that, Holmes? Fierce thoughts, I’m afraid, thoughts a married man shouldn’t have about his best friend.” He sounds contemplative. Sherlock swallows because his throat has now gone dry. Watson _thinks_ about him. Decent, proper Watson has thoughts of him - and inappropriate thoughts at that? 

 

 He feels sweat begin to bead across his forehead and there’s an uncomfortable tightness in his pants. “Watson, _go away._ ” But it’s already too late, vanilla-scented slick is beginning to trickle and wet his backside. His breathing is coming out in shallow puffs and his throat feels hoarse. He needs to walk away, take a cold bath and just go back to his study.

 

“You smell delectable Holmes,” Watson groans. “You’re still unmated and your scent, it begs for things you’re too reserved to ask for.”

 

It’s like Sherlock’s running out of oxygen, Watson’s scent is getting stronger, potent alpha pheromones robbing him of solid air. His hand flies to his mouth to stifle a moan, he can’t be getting off on this, he can’t.

 

Watson’s voice is merely a murmur now, but to Sherlock it’s so loud it echoes. “I’ve been going wild thinking about you. Your hair, your eyes, your _lips_ , a man can only take so much. I can relieve the burn, Holmes. Let me - fuck - your _wet,_ aren’t you?”

 

He can’t even deny it himself, he’s dripping and it’s shameful how eager his body is behaving. It’s just a knot, that’s all, and yet it feels as if he’ll die without it. The handle of the door feels cool in his palm, and he closes his eyes in surrender.

 

Watson doesn’t waste any time - he crowds Sherlock until he has him braced against a wall, pausing to lock the door , he gives the omega a ravenous glance before he’s placing smoldering kisses across Sherlock’s soft throat. The omega’s vision is blurring; he can feel his mind reverting to its primitive nature. He wants to submit to Watson, surrender his entire being to the alpha, and the urge is near violent.

 

But he needs to hold on, Watson’s not in his right mind, Sherlock needs to calm things down, he needs to be rational. Digging his fingers into Watson’s shoulder, he tries to ground himself. “Watson, this isn’t you,” he says, shaking now. Watson’s rut has never happened around him before. What if he’s losing control? What if the alpha is making a huge mistake because of his hindbrain and will come to do something he’ll regret? Sherlock wouldn’t be able to take it if Watson hated him for allowing things to go too far.

 

The alpha raises his head to give Sherlock a wolfish grin. “It’s remarkable how blind you’ve always been. To my stares,” his tongue grazes the shell of Sherlock’s ear, causing him to shiver. “My lingering touches,” his hand travels down to rest on the omega’s hip, gentle yet firm, holding Sherlock in place. “There came a point where I had to reel myself back in fear that you’d never want me as much as I you.” His other hand threads itself through Sherlock’s hair, with a slight pull of the unruly curls, he angles Sherlock’s parted lips to his. “But then you went into _heat_. It was simply excruciating being around you. I feared I’d lose all of my carefully honed control and just end up knotting you over and over.”

 

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs with his gulp. “As the days passed, my thoughts and urges became nigh irrepressible,” Watson continues. “It was my love for you that made me realize that in order to protect you from me, I had to leave.” His voice takes on a more wistful edge. Sherlock forces himself to look into Watson’s eyes. He sees the guilt and the pain, the uncertainty beneath all the hunger.

 

“But I was a fool to run. It turns out, unfortunately, that I can’t drown my demons, they’re fairly good swimmers.” Watson doesn’t ask permission, though Sherlock knows he can stop this anytime. He’s free to. He can tell Watson to go away and never come back, to go back to his wife and leave him alone. But he finds he doesn’t want to.

 

Watson’s warm, soft lips press against his and steal all the air from his lungs, replacing the oxygen with his delightful scent. It’s like something off limits, a foreign, forbidden taste of what Sherlock can have, but all too soon Watson pulls away.

 

The words tumble past his lips effortlessly; he can’t stop them. “I love you, Watson. I’m yours. I’ll give you anything you want. Please, just please don’t leave again.” He doesn’t care how desperate he sounds, it’s the truth. It’s always been.

 

Watson doesn’t seem bothered by his eagerness, instead he smirks, cruel but kind. “Are you saying that all it will take for me to claim you, is to promise that I won’t leave and mean it?” His calculating blue eyes scan Sherlock’s face perhaps for signs of subterfuge.

 

The omega nods, eyes bold with honesty.

 

Watson, certain now that Sherlock is serious, hitches the omega’s legs around his waist easily. Too many days of locking himself away in his study without eating makes him light in the alpha’s hold, but he’s too dizzy with the rush of it all to care. Watson loves him? Can it be?

 

 Watson’s clothed cock makes itself apparent by rubbing against the seam of Sherlock’s arse. The sensation causes more warm slick to wet his pants. Sherlock sighs, he’s a mess, but as the alpha’s hands move to clutch the soft flesh and he growls low and guttural, obviously pleased, Sherlock knows he’s _Watson’s mess_. He can live with that.

 

The alpha smiles, predatory. “With you looking and smelling like this,” he punctuates his sentence with a rough squeeze and a particularly mind melting thrust of his hips, pressing Sherlock further into the wall and the omega cries out, delirious as all the blood rushes south. “What makes you think I _could_ leave.”

 

Grinding down roughly, Watson watches as Sherlock lets out a needy whine before covering his mouth with his again. Tongue breaching Sherlock’s parted lips, he teases more breathless moans from him while rocking his hips. He seems determined to reduce Sherlock to nothing but a whimpering, begging omega.

 

While Watson’s hips continue their torture, Sherlock’s straining member, trapped between them, _relishes_ in the friction. He may come just from this, but god, he can’t find it within himself to care. He _can’t_ care, not when it feels so - _oh no_.

 

He spasms against Watson, hips rising to meet the alpha’s and get even more friction until he’s flinching from overstimulation. His neglected hole keeps twitching hungrily around nothing, producing more hot slick that sticks to his skin and makes the whole room smell sweetly of vanilla.

 

As he’s coming down from his high, Sherlock barely realizes that he’s being hoisted up onto Watson’s shoulder and carried to his room until he feels the plush softness of his bed beneath him. He blinks in the dim room and winces at the contact of his wet arse to the warm bed. Temporarily distracted by the change in their surroundings, Sherlock misses the way Watson’s studying him as if he’s saving every moment in his memory.

 

Watson’s pulling off his coat and shirt, revealing a chest so toned that Sherlock’s mouth waters. Watson lets him watch for a second longer before he’s divesting Sherlock of everything but his shirt.

 

He sucks bruising marks into the bared flesh of the omega’s throat, distracting Sherlock, while his hands spread his parted thighs, wider. Watson slots himself between them, giving Sherlock’s arse a loving caress before the omega feels his channel close around something foreign and real, but nothing like what it wants. Sherlock keens as Watson adds another digit, and his hands fly to stifle his desperate moans.

 

            “So tight,” Watson praises. “You’ve let yourself go untouched for so long.”

 

            The words are honey-sweet but Sherlock closes his eyes, embarrassed. He doesn’t want to tell Watson that he’s always hoped that the alpha would change his mind about Mary. That Sherlock actively refused to give up his innocence to anyone but his good friend. He was waiting for the alpha to claim him as he had already owned Sherlock’s heart, he might as well complete the set. But Sherlock would die before he ever admitted such a pathetic thing to his friend.

 

Aided by Sherlock’s copious slick, Watson’s fingers continue their torment. Though he doesn’t directly hit the omega’s sweet spot, Sherlock’s channel desperately swallows each digit, trying to milk them like they’re a knot. He moans long and loud, unable to help himself. Watson seems to like the exhibition, because his eyes never leave Sherlock’s blushing face.

 

Sherlock’s hole greedily twitches around air when Watson removes his fingers. The omega feels so empty it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he whines out in protest, but Watson merely grins, wide and pleased. “I’m going to make you come until you’re breathless,” he promises, placing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s brow.

 

As if possessed by a spirit, the omega flips himself around, pressing his face into a pillow, he raises his arse for Watson’s view. He’s presenting, he’s never done this before but he doesn’t feel the need to be shy. As Watson lets out a satisfied growl and clutches his arse again, Sherlock feels emboldened.

 

The salty, all-encompassing scent, coupled with the heat in the room, causes sweat to form along Sherlock’s body. His heart thunders in his chest, loud and erratic while the taste of Watson’s lips still lingers on his tongue, like a savory treat. Strong fingers card through his hair, pulling him until his back is flush to Watson’s chest.

 

Sherlock preens at the contact, shuddering as Watson’s warm lips press soft, insistent kisses to the side of his throat while his other hand deftly toys with one of the omega’s nipples.

 

There’s a pause before firm hands are pressing Sherlock back down to the mattress, bending him until his arse is raised high and his head is low. His hole twitches eagerly in anticipation and he closes his eyes, trying to slow down his breathing.

 

A hand rests on the small of his back, strong but gentle as Watson’s heated breath caresses his ear. “Relax, Holmes. I’ve got you,” the alpha assures, kissing him tenderly on the lips. Something blunt presses against his rim and he wills himself to breathe.

 

“Ahh, that’s it, Holmes,” Watson praises. “Just relax.” The sea is calling to him, all he wants is to sink down into the depths of pleasure. To be one with Watson in a way they’ve never been. 

 

The alpha inches more and more of himself in at a torturously slow pace. Watson’s cock is bigger than Sherlock’s ever imagined. Even with the amount of slick he’s producing, there’s still an incredible burn as it stretches him. He groans out, trying to pull away but his hole seems to have other plans. It clenches around the intrusion latching on, taking them both off-guard.

 

“Breathe,” Watson urges, placing a kiss to Sherlock’s hair. And so, Sherlock, unable to find it within himself to make a scathing retort, does. Concentrating on the beat of his heart, the firm hand on his back and the other on his hip, Sherlock tries to calm himself down. Pressing back experimentally, he wills his body to let up on the death grip it has around Watson’s dick.

 

And there’s something to be said about Watson’s patience, Sherlock can tell by the spike in his scent that Watson wants to knot him. It’s probably all he’s been thinking about with his rut, but the alpha is perfectly still.  

 

“Sherlock, do you need me to stop?” he asks.

 

The burning is starting to dull now. Little sparks of pleasure dance along his spine as his body adjusts to the cock spreading him wide. If he relaxes some more, he can probably get Watson in up to the hilt. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, gasping out.

 

Watson chuckles. “Your wish, my command.” And he slowly inches more of himself into Sherlock’s wet heat. When the alpha finally bottoms out, it’s a thrill. Like every nerve in Sherlock’s body is alive and bursting with a current of unbelievable intensity. The waves crash over him and he surrenders himself to the rush, letting it flood him. They both wait for the extraordinary pleasure to settle before Sherlock is urging Watson to finally move.

 

The pace is slow, but steady. Sherlock can’t think of anything but the feeling of being so full with Watson, so full it’s like he can feel him _everywhere_. All through his being and even in his mind. “Thought of this so much, Holmes,” Watson says, thrusting hard and deep. The omega’s toes curl and he tries to keep it together, unwilling to come as quick as last time. “There’s not a surface in here that I haven’t imagined bending you over.” Sherlock’s gasp morphs into a flat-out groan at the words. _Watson’s thought of him this way?_ _He’s had filthy, delicious thoughts about him all this time?_ How... _thrilling._ Watson’s hand rises to Sherlock’s throat and he holds the omega down, thrusting harder as Sherlock cries out again. “Getting to fuck you whenever I want because you don’t belong to anyone else.” His voice is losing its control as he succumbs to the rut dominating his being.

 

Despite his efforts, Sherlock feels it coming, with all the force of a train. He cries out Watson’s name, hole clenching tight as it tries to coax Watson’s knot to pop. And all he manages to do is grin before his orgasm crashes over him, leaving him boneless. He delights when the alpha’s sharp teeth sink into the smooth flesh of his neck - there is no pain, just mind-blowing sensation.

 

Searing liquid fills him as Watson’s large knot catches on his rim and the alpha continues to pump him full. Sherlock cries out feebly, oversensitive again, but his mouth doesn’t want to form words to speak. He’s absolutely ecstatic about being claimed, being _marked_ , but his body feels heavy.

 

Sleep pulls them both under. The last thing Sherlock remembers is Watson kissing his hair again, and the amazing, mingled scent of vanilla and salt, like fleur de sel, curling itself around him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes up to darkness, Watson’s scent still on his skin. His body aches, though it is in the best way possible. He feels light and ethereal, magical and in more ways than one, complete. Whole. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this.

 

He hasn’t forgotten last night, in fact, it is now slotted on the mental shelf of memories he holds most sacred. Naturally, the ones that include Watson (his favorite ones) are at the top shelf, where this memory also belongs.

 

He truly feels wonderful, but there’s this horrible, dark twinge of remorse coloring his perfect picture of peace – the regret he can’t quite shake. As much as Sherlock loves Watson, Watson doesn’t belong to him. He belongs to _his wife_ , Mary. What they’ve done was amazing and Sherlock will remember it always. At times when he feels he can’t go on, can’t take the loss of everything he holds dear anymore, he’ll remember that for a moment, Watson was his and he was Watson’s. But no matter how happy he feels; it still doesn’t make this right.

 

_He_ must make this right.

 

His voice is hoarse when he calls Watson’s name. A part of him wishes the alpha has left him, that he’s already gone back to Mary while Sherlock was sleeping. He doesn’t want to watch Watson leave again - that’s a scene that doesn’t need replaying.

 

But what greets him is a haunting, deafening silence. Sherlock curls in on himself, feeling the tears prickle his vision. This is it then, Watson’s gone. It’s what needed to happen, so why does he feel so awful?  “You deserve a happy marriage,” he whispers and pretends as if he can’t hear his heart breaking in the quiet.

 

“And what do you deserve?” Suddenly, Watson’s low voice comes from somewhere in the room and Sherlock’s heart beats faster as the blood rises to color his cheeks. The alpha’s scent, calmer now, surrounds him, willing him to relax as strong, warm arms wrap around him, pulling him closer.

 

Sherlock sighs, the tears begin to fall but he doesn’t make any effort to wipe them away. Why can’t it ever be easy? Why does he have to love the one person he absolutely cannot have? He leans his head on Watson’s shoulder and closes his eyes. _If you killed me, it would hurt less_.

 

Then he remembers that he was asked a question and he blinks, trying to get air into his lungs. “I deserve a life that I can endure. You are both the worst and most wonderful thing to have happened to me, Watson.” He gazes into the alpha’s face, unable to hide the pain from his voice or his expression. “And I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you bitterly for that.” He swallows, closing his eyes again and tries to make his voice sound less broken. “Why-why did you come here?”

 

Watson is quiet, his hold around him is firm and sturdy and Sherlock gets the impression that the alpha is choosing his words very carefully.

 

When Watson finally speaks, his words are laden with more uncertainty than Sherlock’s ever witnessed in him. “Did last night mean nothing to you?”

 

Sherlock blinks, taken aback, it’s the most absurd question he’s ever been asked. “It meant _everything_ to me,” he says, lifting his head to peer into the alpha’s bewitching blue eyes. “But we cannot play this game. I won’t pretend she doesn’t exist. Nothing changes the fact that with her is where you belong.” It doesn’t matter that he may never heal from this. That he may be irreparably broken for the rest of his life, forever fading away because the pain will be too much. It doesn’t matter that he’ll see Watson in every face and long to be with him in every moment. At least, he’ll have comfort in knowing that he did the right thing in sending Watson away. In letting Mary have all the happiness he once wished for himself.

 

Watson will be with his beloved and the world will continue to turn. They will have children and every night, Watson will hold his wife in his arms, loving her with all his ability. But Sherlock may never see them together without feeling his heart tear into a million pieces. No, he’d rather go blind than ever witness that. “You aren’t mine,” he whispers, breathless. The agony spreads through him, vicious and fiercely caustic as the horrible truth sets in. “You never were.”

 

“That is preposterous,” Watson snarls. “Holmes, I _love_ you. I was in rut, I couldn’t handle it, but I did not think about Mary. While I felt as if I were losing my mind, the only person I wanted beside me was you. The only one I thought of was you. She even _told_ me to leave. Apparently, the truth all came out while I was influenced by…other things.” He laughs, but it holds no mirth. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet that our marriage is a farce. It was an act of sheer cowardice, choosing her over you. But I still hurt you, despite my best efforts, and that is…unforgivable.”

 

Sherlock says nothing, he doesn’t need to get his hopes up. He’ll die right here if he’s disappointed again. He settles for simply watching Watson’s face as he speaks, memorizing these last moments of them being together. Though he does not allow himself to see it as anything more than what it is – a lapse in Watson’s judgment caused by his rut. He may want to believe it as something else, but that will only serve to break his already fickle resolve.

 

Watson continues, “If you want me to go, I can. I’ve lied to everyone, and that was wrong, but the pain I’ve inflicted upon you…well let’s just say…” He pauses to place a gentle, lingering kiss to Sherlock’s brow. “I deserve to be violently struck by lightning. I’ve been selfish this whole time and you’ve been nothing but good to me. You need only say the word and I’ll be gone. You deserve so much better than me, Holmes. I hope my absence will constantly remind you of that. Though it kills me,” Watson places a warm kiss to Sherlock’s hand, entwining his fingers with his and clasping tightly. “I want your life to be as wonderful as you deserve, even if it holds no place for me.”

 

            “You _love_ me? Did I hear that correctly?” Sherlock blinks, because this _has_ _to_ be a dream.

 

            Watson appears to study his face for signs of hysteria. “Yes, you heard right. I love you and it consumes me with an intensity that I’m tired of fighting. If there’s anything I can do to reverse some of the damage I’ve done, let me know and I’ll do it, irrefutably.”

 

            Sherlock doesn’t need to think about it. “Say you’ll stay,” he whispers, meeting Watson’s fiery gaze with his own electric one.

 

            The alpha blinks. “Really? After all I’ve done, I would imagine you’d hate me. That would be wiser.”

 

            “I can’t be wise when it comes to you, I’m afraid.” Sherlock’s smile is wide but his eyes burn into Watson’s with blazing sincerity. “Promise me you’ll stay,” he pleads. _And mean it with all your heart._

Watson tilts Sherlock’s chin up so their lips are level. “You are simply exceptional. I promise not to leave again,” he whispers. “The only thing that would ever make me even consider changing my mind, is if you changed yours.” His eyes glow with such veracity that Sherlock forgets how to breathe. There is no going back for either of them now.

 

Their lips meet and the universe stands still. As his hands tangle in Watson’s hair, he wraps his legs around the alpha’s waist and Watson clings to him. He feels so dizzy with the force of his love, rising inside him and threatening to overflow that he pulls away laughing, positively thrilled with this turn of events.

 

Watson leans him back until he’s pressing into the mattress, the alpha’s sturdier frame keeping him still as he peppers kisses across Sherlock’s bare skin…

 

When they’re finished, both satisfied and panting, Sherlock asks him, “Does it feel like home again?” And Watson, bless him, says with candor, “ _You_ are my home, Sherlock. Without you, I will forever be lost. No matter where I find myself, it will be no place for me if you’re not by my side.”

 

And Sherlock finds that there is nothing left to say, except maybe “I love you,” over and over. It feels good knowing that he has all of eternity to say that, after all, he refuses to lose Watson again. Wherever he goes, Sherlock will follow. Always. Even if it is to the ends of the earth, he will follow his mate, without question. For the undeniable fact is his love knows no bounds. It can’t even be contained by his heart.

 

Watson owns his body, his heart and soul too, but the best thing, the absolute best thing, is that he also owns Watson’s. And that is more than enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may be a little sleep-deprived, but that isn't going to stop me from thanking you guys for reading! So thank you all, I'll be around of course!
> 
> <3 <3 <3
> 
> And remember: be fierce, stay weird, live bravely, love with all your might and the world is yours. ;)


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